The Wandering Jew — Complete eBook

“I told you, father, that I was very unhappy;
judge if it be not so,” cried the marshal.
“Not only I ask myself, if I ought to abandon
my children and you, to run the risk of so daring
an enterprise, but I ask myself if I am not bound
to the present government, which, in acknowledging
my rank and title, if it bestowed no favor, at least
did me an act of justice. How shall I decide?—­abandon
all that I love, or remain insensible to the tortures
of Emperor—­of that Emperor to the son of
the whom I owe everything—­to whom I have
sworn fidelity, both to himself and child? Shall
I lose this only opportunity, perhaps, of saving him,
or shall I conspire in his favor? Tell me, if
I exaggerate what I owe to the memory of the Emperor?
Decide for me, father! During a whole sleepless
night, I strove to discover, in the midst of this chaos,
the line prescribed by honor; but I only wandered
from indecision to indecision. You alone, father—­you
alone, I repeat, can direct me.”

After remaining for some moments in deep thought,
the old man was about to answer, when some person,
running across the little garden, opened the door
hastily, and entered the room in which were the marshal
and his father. It was Olivier, the young workman,
who had been able to effect his escape from the village
in which the Wolves had assembled.

“M. Simon! M. Simon!” cried
he, pale, and panting for breath. “They
are here—­close at hand. They have
come to attack the factory.”

“Who?” cried the old man, rising hastily.

“The Wolves, quarrymen, and stone-cutters, joined
on the road by a crowd of people from the neighborhood,
and vagabonds from town. Do you not hear them?
They are shouting, ‘Death to the Devourers!’”

The clamor was indeed approaching, and grew more and
more distinct.

“It is the same noise that I heard just now,”
said the marshal, rising in his turn.

“There are more than two hundred of them, M.
Simon,” said Olivier; “they are armed
with clubs and stones, and unfortunately the greater
part of our workmen are in Paris. We are not
above forty here in all; the women and children are
already flying to their chambers, screaming for terror.
Do you not hear them?”

The ceiling shook beneath the tread of many hasty
feet.

“Will this attack be a serious one?” said
the marshal to his father, who appeared more and more
dejected.

“Very serious,” said the old man; “there
is nothing more fierce than these combats between
different unions; and everything has been done lately
to excite the people of the neighborhood against the
factory.”

“If you are so inferior in number,” said
the marshal, “you must begin by barricading
all the doors—­and then—­”